I stashed my notes in my desk, leaned back, and rocked in my chair. The locked filing cabinet against the wall caught my eye. It was past six, and almost everyone had punched out for the day. But I’d noticed George Walsh skulking around about twenty minutes before. Unsure if he was still polluting the sector, I surveyed the newsroom, then peeked down the hall. No weasels in sight, so I returned to my desk and retrieved a key from my purse. Rummaging through the cabinet, I located the file I needed, rolled the drawer closed, and locked it up again. Georgie Porgie had stolen one too many of my stories, and I’d learned my lesson the hard way. I now kept all my notes and contacts locked up tight. Well, not the garden party story; George was welcome to that one if he wanted it. But the folder I held in my sweaty little hands was different. I ran my fingers over the name tag I’d pasted to the top—Jordan Shaw Murder.
I stashed the folder in my purse, slipped the cover over my typewriter, and headed home. I needed privacy and a stiff drink for the phone call I was about to make.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I dialed Judge Shaw’s home number at half past eight, hoping he and his wife had finished their dinner. Perhaps she’d gone straight to bed after the garden party. I never found out; the judge himself answered the phone on the third ring. I lost my nerve and hung up.
I debated whether to run across the street for a chat with Fadge, but I was tired and ready to turn in. I decided one short drink wouldn’t hurt, so I made a withdrawal from the freezer, nearly ripping the skin off the palm of my hand on the metal handle of the ice tray. I poured myself an inviting two fingers; then the downstairs doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock above the stove—a few minutes past ten. A little early for Fadge to be closing the store. I climbed down the back stairs to open up. It wasn’t my dear pal standing on the stoop.
“Surprise,” said Freddie Whitcomb, who seemed—rightly so—a little embarrassed.
“Hi,” I stammered. “This is a surprise. How did you find me?”
“You’re in the book.”
I wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand, it was mildly flattering that this attractive man had taken great pains to seek me out. Well, perhaps flipping through a telephone directory didn’t qualify as great pains, but he had driven all the way over from Saratoga. On the other hand, I wondered if I should be alarmed that he had done all that solely on the basis of our brief acquaintance. Should I slam the door, lock it, and call the police? Or invite him up to share my drink?
“Look, I know this might make you feel uncomfortable,” he said. “But I assure you I’m only here because you were irresistible at the track. And I promise I’m harmless.”
I softened a bit. Maybe a lot. “If you’re harmless, why on earth would I dream of letting you in?”
I allowed Freddie Whitcomb to join me upstairs for a couple of drinks. We chatted in my parlor, me with my Dewar’s, him with some brandy I’d been saving.
“Lovely place you have,” he announced, raising his snifter, which I took as an indication of his seal of approval.
“It’s all right. Although I do have to be mindful of my landlady downstairs. You, too, by the way. She’s a light sleeper and hears every footstep.”
“I’ll tread as lightly as a sprite,” he said, then took a big gulp of his brandy.
“So what brought you here tonight?” I asked. “I thought we had an arrangement for Saturday at the casino in Saratoga.”
“We did. And we do. But I must say, Ellie, that your charms should not be dispensed without a license. You’re intoxicating.”
I snorted a laugh. “And you’re a shameless flatterer. You wanted a drink and didn’t know where to find one.”
He threw his most seductive smile my way and said he knew very well where to find a drink, but he wanted one served by me. I liked that. Two points for Freddie.
“I have a secret,” I said, tipping my glass in his direction.
“I’ve got loads of secrets.”
“But this one involves your mother.”
Freddie feigned shock. “Not Mother. Oh, dear.”
“I’m meeting her tomorrow at the Gideon Putnam in Saratoga. For a story I’m writing for the paper.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t mention my name.”
“Thanks for the tip. I wasn’t planning on it.”
“She doesn’t approve of me, I’m afraid.”
I glanced at my watch. It was approaching eleven. I rose and switched off the light in my bedroom. Then the light in the kitchen.
“It’s getting dark in here,” he said.
I didn’t explain to him, but in case Fadge had it in his head to drop by unexpectedly after work for a visit, I wanted there to be no doubt that I was in bed.
“Would you like to go out and grab a bite to eat?” he asked. “I saw a little ice-cream shop across the street.”
“I’m not hungry. And I’ve got some peanut butter and Spam if you’d like something.”
Freddie’s appetites, however, were running in other directions that night.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15, 1962
Freddie rose before dawn, dressed, and apologized for having to run out on me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got to go to work.”
He winced an apology at me. “So sorry I kept you up last night.”
“No, you’re not.”
He kissed me. Nothing too romantic; we hardly knew each other, after all. Sweet and friendly, it was better than a handshake. He asked if I was free that evening, but I had to beg off. Then he buttoned his collar and was off down the stairs. I followed him in my robe to wave good-bye and—damn it—ran straight into my landlady, Mrs. Giannetti, on the front porch. It wasn’t yet six. What was she doing up at that hour? She watched Freddie jump into his car—a red MGA roadster—before turning to stare me down with a reproachful arch of the eyebrows. She held her tongue that day, but I was confident she was only biding her time; I’d get an earful at some point, calculated to deliver the maximum sting. I dragged myself back upstairs to get ready for the day.
The Montgomery County Jail was located in the administrative building north of town on Route 22. The sheriff’s office was on the ground floor, the cells in the basement, and the courtroom on the second floor. I’d had occasion to visit often over the past four years while covering everything from family court hearings to murder investigations. And, of course, to visit my pal Frank Olney and his deputies. I was on friendly terms with all of them. It pays to play nice with cops when you’re covering local news, but I also liked the guys. And they were always protective of me. Deputy Brunello once referred to me as “the sweetheart of Sigma Chi,” and the nickname stuck. I don’t believe any of them had ever been on a college campus, let alone pledged a fraternity, but they all knew the song. More or less. And, bless their hearts, they even sang me part of the refrain from time to time.
“And the moonlight beams on the girl of my dreams
She’s the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.”
In fairness, I believe that was the only part they knew, but I was touched and flattered by their affections all the same.
“Good morning, Ellie,” said Pat Halvey from behind his typewriter. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been busy. How’ve you been, Pat?”
“Bowling regularly. Not much else.”
Pat wasn’t the world’s greatest conversationalist. But he was a pretty good bowler.
“Is Frank in?” I asked.
He buzzed the sheriff, and in short order I was seated across from Frank Olney, who told Pat to bring me a cup of freshly perked coffee and a Danish.
“I’ve got some news for you,” said the sheriff, swiveling in his chair. “Spoke to Pryor last night and told him about the anonymous tip. I also mentioned that I’d come across the name Robinson and a possible meeting with Dornan on Friday night. He lapped it up. Said it might be the big break he was waiting for.”
“He didn’t seem to care when I told him about Robinso
n.”
“He was real thankful and called me back this morning. Found the husband.”
“Tommy McLaglen?”
“That’s right. How’d you know his name?”
“My assistant dug up Vivian McLaglen’s wedding announcement.”
Frank nodded and pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to me. He’d scratched McLaglen’s name and address on it. “He’s been living in Albany for the past six years.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“His arrest record might tell you something. Burglary, gambling, and simple assault.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
Frank pursed his lips. He didn’t approve.
“What’s he look like?” I asked to give him a break.
“I don’t have a picture, but his file says he’s medium height and weight. Dark hair and eyes. Swarthy complexion.”
“Did Pryor tell you how tall exactly?”
Frank lifted the corner of a paper on his desk and glanced sideways at it. “Five-nine. Were you thinking he might’ve been the guy in the barn?”
“No, I’m sure it was Johnny Dornan. Now I’d like to find out why. What was a successful jockey in the middle of a good meet doing with a woman of Vivian Coleman’s pedigree?”
“She’d been mixed up plenty with gamblers. Maybe your Johnny Dornan was crooked.”
“Maybe.” I grabbed the paper with the name and address and folded it into my purse. “You think there’s any chance I might find McLaglen at home on a Wednesday morning in August?”
“Probably not. But according to his parole officer, he works at Union Station in Albany, waxing floors and emptying trash.”
“Thanks again, Frank. I owe you breakfast at the Ballston Diner.”
He blushed crimson. “Aw, come on, Ellie. That ain’t right.”
Information had no number for Tommy, Tom, or Thomas McLaglen in Albany. I was loath to waste another long car drive on the off chance of finding a half-wit or hoodlum lazing about home in an undershirt and no pants. But armed with the knowledge that he worked at Union Station, I thought the odds were good that I could track him down. Plus, I had some other work in that part of town I could squeeze in if all else failed. For some time, Charlie Reese had been on my back to document the neighborhoods surrounding the capital buildings in the South End of Albany. They were all scheduled to be razed to make way for Rockefeller’s new complex of government buildings. That was as good an excuse as any, so I phoned Charlie and told him of my plans.
“What about your society-page piece?” he asked.
“All but done. Just missing a face-to-face with the chairwoman of the fund drive. I’m meeting her at four this afternoon in Saratoga.”
“Good. And there’s a story I need you to file on the Little Titans football physicals.”
“What?”
“You know, football season’s starting in a few weeks.”
“Why isn’t Ralphie Fisher covering it? It’s sports, after all.”
“He’s out of town, and Gabe Morrissey’s been out since his hernia operation.”
I cursed all of them, including Gabe’s abdominal protrusions, and not entirely under my breath. “So I have to go write a story on twelve-year-olds dropping their drawers and coughing for Dr. Geraldo?”
“You don’t have to go inside,” said Charlie as if agreeing to a concession. “And of course no pictures of that. Maybe a couple shots of the boys waiting with their dads outside. Some upbeat quotes about how excited they are about the upcoming season. You can knock it out in ten minutes.”
“When and where?”
Union Station was a grand edifice. Built around the turn of the century, it reigned over much of Broadway near the river. That part of the city had fallen into decay and retained little of its former glory. Governor Rockefeller had ambitious plans for downtown Albany, however, as evidenced by the roaring demolition going on several blocks to the west of the station.
At a few minutes past ten, I entered the majestic Beaux Arts building from Maiden Lane and peeled my eyes for sweepers. Finding none on the job, I checked with the stationmaster. He asked me what I wanted with Tommy. I lied that I was his niece, and he pointed to a door marked “Maintenance” halfway down the platform.
“Keep it short,” he offered as parting advice. “He’s got work to do.”
The door indicated by the stationmaster was wide open. Seated cross-legged on the floor, a man in his thirties was sweating like a yak as he monkeyed with the innards of an overturned marble-buffing machine. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
“Inside the terminal,” he said. “Past the newsstand, to the left of the phone booths.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The ladies’,” he said, dragging the greasy back of his hand across his brow.
I’m sure I blushed. “Oh, no. I’m not . . . Actually, I was looking for Tommy McLaglen. Would he be you?”
“Yeah. I be he.” He chuckled. “Who be you?”
I introduced myself and said I was there to inquire about his wife, Vivian. The smiling face collapsed. He pushed himself off the floor and wiped his hands on a rag. The muscles of his forearms tensed and twisted under his skin as he did. I thought he was ruggedly handsome in a broken-nose, take-me-now-on-the-floor-of-the-stable kind of way. Lady Chatterley’s type, not mine.
“What’s this about exactly?”
“I’m investigating a fire that burned down a barn on an abandoned farm in Saratoga County.”
“What’s that got to do with Viv?”
I gulped. This was her husband after all. Breaking the news of my suspicions wasn’t going to be easy.
“I’d like to speak to your wife about the fire,” I said, playing for time.
I needn’t have worried. Tommy McLaglen tossed the rag on the workbench behind him and sneered. “I don’t know where she is. I’ve only seen her once in the past eight years.”
“Eight years? But you’re still married.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Yeah. So how’s she mixed up in this fire business? Did she set it?”
My words caught in my throat despite myself. “Oh, Mr. McLaglen. She didn’t set the fire. I believe she died in it.”
I might just as well have kicked him in the gut. He bent over, held a hand over his midsection, and wobbled into a seat on a stool next to the workbench.
“Are you saying she’s dead?” he asked once he’d composed himself.
I weighed my words before pronouncing them. “There’s been no identification yet.”
He drew a long sigh, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then straightened his spine. He stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking.
“I’m sure she deserved what she got,” he said before producing a handkerchief where he buried his face to weep.
Tommy McLaglen unburdened himself. He told me how his brother had married the young Vivian Coleman during the war when she was still in bobby socks and barrettes. He’d loved her even then. Even when his older brother brought her home to two parents who couldn’t have been more disappointed if she’d arrived cash on delivery. Tommy was sixteen and didn’t know what to make of the beauty his brother had bagged. And she had little idea of the effect her charms exerted on him. Or perhaps she realized all too well. The silent, meaningful glances at the dinner table, the encounters in the corridor, brushing past one another as they headed to and from the shared bathroom. There was always a little extra friction in Vivian’s grazes, a lingering of her fingertips on his shoulder or hand. Something more than a sister-in-law should ever need to share with her husband’s younger brother.
“They moved out after a year and a half,” he said, head hanging low, elbows resting on his knees. “I didn’t see her for another year, except for at Easter and Pop’s birthday. That’s when it happened.”
“You slept with her? Your brother’s wife?”
He offered a sheepish shrug. “We started meeting up after Pop’s birthday party. At
run-down hotels, in my car, at the movies. Anywhere we could be alone for a few minutes.”
My mouth had gone dry. I said nothing, willing him to continue.
“We were in love. She hated Ernie. My brother. We talked about running off together, but neither of us had any money. Then my mother nearly caught us one day. She was supposed to be working, but she forgot her gloves. She cleaned houses in Delmar.”
“Did she guess what was going on?” I asked.
“I think so. She never said anything to me, but I got the cold shoulder for a couple of weeks. And she never left me alone with Viv again.”
“So things cooled off?”
“I joined the navy and served two years at sea. When I came back, Ernie got called up for Korea. He moved Viv out to California where he did his boot camp. Then he shipped out. He was killed in action three months later.”
“And you two decided to get married after that?”
“We waited six months. Had to make it respectable.”
They’d failed, at least in my opinion. I can’t imagine what his family thought.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?” I asked. “With your marriage, I mean.”
Tommy grabbed the greasy rag again and wiped his eyes and face. Then he fixed me with his stare.
“Did you say you were a reporter?”
“Yes.”
“Why am I telling you all this?”
“Because you want to know what happened to Vivian,” I said, figuring that an assertive answer was my best bet.
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